


Douce Vengeance

by downjune



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2007-2008 NHL Season, Car Sex, M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Rookie Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-24 09:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15627504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downjune/pseuds/downjune
Summary: "By Christmas time, I don't think I ever seen him with socks or underwear on."~Sidney Crosby





	Douce Vengeance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sebfish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebfish/gifts).



> Inspired by [this miraculous video](http://xosweetgirl18ox.tumblr.com/post/74577777596) and the prompt, "I thought you were gonna bring it."

Kris had tried keeping backup underwear hidden in his bag, in his locker, in the shower cubbies. He’d tried hiding some in cupboards in exam rooms. He’d even tried stashing it in other teammates’ lockers in hopes that he could grab it while they showered. 

It all ended up cut to pieces on the floor. He gave in and bought the cheap shit from Walmart so he wouldn’t care so much when it was inevitably ruined. He refused to go commando on principle. Whoever the fuck was stealing and destroying his underwear was not going to beat him. They might think he was some green fucking rookie they could push around, but Kris was not gonna bend on this. He belonged here with the big team. He sure as fuck was not going back down this year. And this was the hill he’d die on.

He came to practice wearing underwear every damn day.

And every day he went home with his dick up close and personal with his jeans zipper. He learned not to flinch when he caught his pubes in the teeth. Then he tried manscaping and got _so itchy_ , the guys all thought he had a condition.

“You just gotta role with it,” Sid told him one day early in December. “He—they don’t mean anything by it. They just wanna get a rise out of you.”

Kris glared at his cheap plaid boxer shorts, laid out in four neat pieces in his stall. The waistband had itched anyway. “You know who it is, don’t you,” he said darkly. Kris had a hunch, but if Sid knew and wasn’t talking— He followed Sid's quick glance across the room to Talbo and Flower, giggling like idiots. They were speaking French, though Kris wasn’t close enough to hear. They were supposed to be his friends. The Quebeccers were supposed to stick together.

Kris’s English was way better than Flower’s, and he wanted to feel superior about that. Flower got so flustered in interviews, he started laughing and cussing when he couldn’t find the right words. Kris wanted to shout them from across the room just to put him out of his misery.

Mostly he wanted Flower to like him.

And how the fuck was that going to happen when he barely talked to Kris at all and was likely cutting up his underwear?

“They do this shit with you?” Kris asked. “When you start?”

Half out of his gear after practice, Sid snorted a laugh. “Oh, yeah. Oh my god.”

“And you don’t care?”

Sid shrugged. He stepped out of his nasty old jock and hung it on a hook. “Nah. This is your team. They know you belong here.” 

Easy for him to say, with that brand-new C on his sweater and a contract into the next decade. Not that Kris was in a position to compare himself to Sidney Crosby. Even if they’d been drafted the same year and Kris had worn the C for Canada, he was…he had a lot more to prove.

He had a lot to prove to Flower.

“Fine,” Kris bit out. “He wants a rise, he can have a rise.”

Sid shot him a sidelong glance. “Come on, you’re French. Why do you even care about underwear?”

Kris turned slowly to glare at his captain. He inhaled deeply, ready to defend the hygiene of his people, when he caught the quirk of Sid’s smile and the brightness of his eyes. 

“You’re a dick,” Kris said. “That’s why I care.”

Sid grinned like that was the nicest thing Kris could have said to him. Kris clomped across the room to get undressed and plot his revenge.

*

A cup of water hidden inside gear, shaving cream pies, stolen clothes—it wasn’t like Kris didn’t know his options. But he was twenty years old, not going back to Junior, and therefore too fucking wise and mature for that juvenile shit. 

Flower on the other hand—more than two years older—obviously hadn’t outgrown anything. He lived for the juvenile shit. Clearly, Kris had to escalate. They were on the road for most of December, but after a shootout win in Boston, Kris decided the time was ripe. Flower had been out for two weeks with a sprained ankle, and though he was traveling with the team, anyone could see he was losing his mind. Something was going to give soon, and it’d be worse than a flooded hotel bathroom.

Being on the road so much, Kris caught a break from the relentless underwear destruction, but he had a feeling he would be the next target, so he felt no guilt whatsoever bumping up against Flower on the walk to their cars after the late flight home. 

“Hey, you wanna get some beers and hang out? Celebrate the win?” he asked in French. “I’m too wired to sleep.”

Flower was a demon on crutches, and he wasted no time planting his right one on Kris’s dress shoe as they walked. In service to his plan, Kris manfully swallowed a curse and was rewarded with an uncertain smile from Flower.

“Really?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Because it was a terrible win. We were up 4-0, and you guys blew it. That should never have gone to a shootout.”

“I’m sure it wouldn’t if you’d been in,” Kris said with convincing loyalty. 

Flower turned to him and his narrow face split in a grin. “I don’t throw my guys under the bus, but you’re probably right.” What he meant was, _I don't throw goalies under the bus. You guys are fair game_. “And where are we going, anyway? You can’t even buy beer yet, and this is Pennsylvania, so liquor laws suck.”

“You can get us a couple six-packs from a bar. Or something stronger, if you want. I’ll buy.”

Flower’s eyes lit up. “Done. You’re driving.”

“Obviously,” Kris retorted. “I have to play hockey tomorrow and every day after that.”

Flower swatted him in the thigh with his crutch and clicked his tongue. “Bitch.”

They could only get two sixers to go at any one bar, so Flower picked up a magnum of the cheapest red wine he could get to go with it, and Kris drove them to one of the overlooks on the way into the city from the airport. It was a crisp, cold night five days before Christmas, but they bundled up and drank on the hood of the car, leaning back against the windshield and smushed shoulder-to-shoulder and hip-to-hip to stay warm.

Kris drank right from the bottle and welcomed the smooth heat of the wine sliding down to his stomach. Next to him, Flower said, “If I ever get tired of this view, just punch me.” 

Kris snorted. “Any time you want me to punch you, just let me know. I’m there for you.”

“Thanks.” Flower elbowed him gently. 

They were quiet for a few minutes, listening to the cars rush by on the highway behind them. Finally, when the silence got a little weird, Flower said, “You know, you need to not take shit so seriously sometimes. That’s my advice to you. For free.”

“I didn’t ask for your advice,” Kris bit back without thinking.

“No?” Flower snatched the wine from him and took a gulp. “Why did you bring me out here, then?”

Kris pushed up onto one elbow. “You think I asked you out here for advice?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Flower replied, shifting away from him a little. His nose was already red from the cold, but a flush rose up his neck to meet it. “I’ve been on the team longer. I’m French. It makes sense.”

Kris scoffed. “I don’t need your advice.” Telling the truth made for the best pranks. Cut-up underwear was fucking amateur hour. “I asked you to hang out because I think you’re funny. I like you, but there’s always too many guys around. It’s hard to just…talk.”

Flower took a longer swallow of the wine. “What did you want to talk about?”

Kris shrugged, flushed with the gradual, warm buzz from the wine. “I don’t know. You think I’m too serious?”

“No. I don’t know. It’s kind of cute.” Flower rubbed his eyes, handed the wine back over, then pulled his glasses case out of a coat pocket. He slid them on his nose and shot Kris a quick glance. “You can maybe relax a little, though. You’re not gonna get sent down again.”

There was no wood to knock, so Kris quickly tapped his own skull. “Shut up, you don’t know that.”

“Come on, it’s December. You’re not going back.”

“You got sent back your rookie season. In January. And from what I heard, you took that pretty seriously.” Word on the street was he’d made himself sick back in the Q.

Flower pressed his lips into a thin line. He held out a hand for the wine, and Kris gave it to him. “Yeah, maybe I’m a little full of shit on that subject.”

“Maybe you’re such a jackass with all the pranks because you’re the one who can’t loosen the fuck up.”

Flower shot him a glare that maybe, an hour ago, would have been intimidating. “So we drink some shitty wine, and you think you know me?” he said. 

Kris met and held his gaze, then dipped his chin in a slow, exaggerated nod. 

“That’s bullshit,” Flower said. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I want.”

“Nah, I think I—”

Flower rolled half on top of him so fast, it was like he’d spotted a puck on its way into his net. He kissed Kris on the mouth, a press of wine-sweet lips and sharp teeth behind them. By reflex Kris grabbed hold of Flower’s arm, unsure whether to shove him off or pull him closer. He could not have planned this better. He couldn’t have planned for this specifically at all.

Flower pulled back after a few seconds. He licked his lips and looked at Kris like he was debating whether to turn the kiss into a joke or lean in for another one. 

“See? You don’t know me,” he said. 

Kris rolled toward him this time, grabbing Flower by the waist, through his puffy winter coat. “I think you,” Kris said just before kissing him again, “want my dick.” He added some tongue this time. “And maybe you have since I got here this season. How am I doing so far?”

Flower grinned in answer, so that even with only a streetlight farther down the row of parking spots, his eyes sparkled.

Boys pulled girls’ pigtails when they liked them. It was the oldest play in the book. Flower’s mistake was disguising it in locker room pranks. After three months of humiliation, Kris was going to destroy him.

*

His plan to take the reins and rock Flower’s world was quickly revised when Flower boxed him in against the side of the car and kissed him again. He was just taller enough that, even though he was a beanpole, he felt big. He pushed the hood off Kris’s head and dug his hands into Kris’s hair and kissed him so hard, Kris forgot to breathe through his nose. 

“It’s good you still have a normal-sized car,” Flower said, fumbling with the door latch behind Kris’s back, while Kris sucked in a few breaths. “Just wait until that first big contract.”

Flower was a car nut and had wasted no time getting something tiny and expensive. Kris had his eye on a BMW, but yeah. He was biding his time. Didn’t want to jinx anything yet. In the meantime, his Grand Cherokee had plenty of room for them.

“More free advice?” Kris asked, climbing backward into the back seat and shoving Flower’s crutches off into the footwell. Flower followed, and Kris snatched the hat off his head as he lay back. Flower knelt over him, hair flopping into his face. 

“I’m full of good advice. You should be writing this down.” Pausing, he took his glasses off and slotted them back into their case. Then he shut the door behind them and dropped to all fours, one knee between Kris’s. Kris caught sight of the wine bottle still on the hood of the car before Flower slid down onto his front and drew him back into a kiss. Pushing his hands up underneath Flower’s coat, Kris grinned into it when Flower gasped and swore, sucking his stomach away from Kris’s cold hands.

They didn’t stay cold for long. The windows fogged with their condensed breath and body heat, and the divot of Flower’s spine was slick with sweat as they rocked together. Kris braced one foot on the seat, the other in the footwell for leverage, and he didn’t want to see what kind of pretzel Flower made to fit his walking boot down there. It was artless heat and friction, rough enough that he wondered how many times Flower had actually done this before. Kris wriggled his hand between their bodies and cupped Flower’s dick in his palm through his dress pants, reaching his fingers a little further back to press on his balls.

The noise Flower made went straight to his gut—a tight, frantic sound just as he froze above Kris, his eyes squeezed shut. Kris felt him come, from the hard pulse in his dick to the tremble in his arms. 

“Fuckfuckfuck,” he swore and bit down on Kris’s throat, his breath shuddery and damp. With an unsteady exhale, he settled his weight against the back of the seat, and dug his hand inside Kris’s suit pants, not even waiting for Kris to undo his fly first. He was maybe even a little surprised to see Kris’s dick when Kris shoved his pants down enough to make room. He stared for a long moment, like if it'd stayed hidden, this wouldn’t be quite as serious, or as gay. 

Kris turned his head on the seat and craned up for a kiss, tasting the salt on Flower’s lip. But Flower kept his eyes on Kris’s dick as he finished him off. Kris shoved up his shirt at the last minute to save on his dry-cleaning bill and watched himself pulse and dribble onto his stomach, his breath harsh alongside Flower’s. From inside the car, the rest of the world may as well have disappeared. 

In the silence that followed, Kris thought of at least five devastating things to say about Flower’s technique and stamina. His own brand of free advice. But when Flower started to shove his hair back, then realized he had jizz all over his hand, Kris took pity and tucked it back for him. And kept his mouth shut. 

“We shouldn’t tell anybody about this,” Flower said a little later, pulling Kris out of a light doze. “It’s whatever, right?”

Kris bit the inside of his lip hard enough to pinch. “Yeah, sure. It’s whatever.”

“Cool. I gotta piss.” With that, he backed up onto his knees, opened the door, and dumped himself into the parking lot. He hobbled his way into the grass and off behind a bush—and this was exactly what Kris had hoped for. 

He sat upright and palmed his keys in his front pocket. 

He could climb into the driver’s seat and execute. Leave Flower here in the middle of the night with no wheels, and… He glanced down to see Flower’s phone in the backseat. No wheels and no phone. He could picture it now—the wine bottle tipping and spilling as he peeled out of the lot, Flower running out from behind the bush, maybe with his dick still in his hand, to see Kris leaving him at a fucking scenic overlook, miles from the city. 

No ride, no crutches, and no phone. How would he even get to one? Limp along the highway until he found a callbox, or some cop happened to drive by, or maybe a serial killer stopped to pick him up?

His stomach rolled. He hadn’t drunk nearly enough wine to be sick, but Kris gripped the seat in front of him and had to close his eyes for a second. 

When he opened them, he spotted Flower’s duffle in the footwell behind the passenger seat and let out a slow breath. He had to work quickly.

Digging inside, he found sweats, already-worn and wrinkled dress shirts, some musty workout clothes—he wasn’t playing, but Flower never took a day off—and bingo. Silk boxer shorts. 

At the bottom of the bag, as reliable as gravity, was a pair of tape scissors. 

By the time Flower came back to the car, Kris had everything zipped up, and he was just cleaning off the spunk on his stomach with some tissues from the box he kept under the front seat. Then, because he couldn’t hold it anymore either, “My turn,” he said and jumped out of the car to take a leak. 

When he returned, Flower was waiting for him on the hood of the car with an open beer and a smile that might have been shy on anybody else. Kris hopped up next to him and clinked his bottle against Flower’s. Flower bumped his knee against Kris’s and took a swig.

“You’re gonna be dead on your feet tomorrow,” Flower said. “I don’t have to play.”

Kris grinned into his beer. “Nah, I’ll be fine.”


End file.
